


Dana's Interno

by havisham



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, Jossed, Miskatonic University, Possible Character Death, Slice of Death, Slice of Life, Slice of Pizza from Big Rico's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Intern Dana's journey into the Dog Park and out again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dana's Interno

**Author's Note:**

> **NOTE:** This is not an allegory. Allegories were forbidden by the City Council in the fifties. Anyone suspected of using allegories within city limits will be summarily executed. 
> 
> Indeed, this story seeks to be as aggressively meaningless as it possibly can be.

A package of Ho-Hos landed in a cloud of dust, a few feet away from Dana. Attached to the bright cardboard box was a Post-It note from Cecil, cheerfully apologizing for the unhealthiness of his offering. A can of Mountain Dew fell like a grenade behind her, making her jump. 

She eyed it suspiciously before picking it up.

Dana was too hungry, too thirsty to wait. Half the can spilled down her shirt, but she didn’t care. She sucked up the moisture — the sweetness — from the dirty cotton of her t-shirt. There was no one around this section of the Dog Park to notice her, and if even if there was, she didn’t think the Hooded Figures would care about getting a glimpse of her stomach. 

The Ho-Hos she ate carefully, like the delicacies they were. The chocolate and white creme (not cream) melted in the corners of her mouth, places where her tongue couldn’t adequately reach. She looked up mid-Ho-Ho and saw a Hooded Figure watching her. 

Dana swallowed and blinked. The Hooded Figure was still there. 

\+ 

Despite her jaunty texts to Cecil, Dana was worried. She was hungry and thirsty all the time, and her cell-phone was at two-thirds battery and dwindling. Actually, it should have been gone by now, but the energy that permeated the very air of the Dog Park seemed to keep it going. The reception was also great, much better than it was in other parts of Night Vale. Dana could hear her mother’s sobs like she was standing right next to her. 

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m okay,” she said awkwardly. Her mother just cried harder. 

Dana was her mother’s second-most-favorite child, just behind her older brother Justin. Sometimes she felt bad for her little brother Mike, knowing that he was the least favorite, knowing that he knew it too. So did anyone who happened to go by the front of their house, where the rankings were posted, right next to the basketball hoop. But really, Mike was a fart in the shape of a ten year old boy. Dana didn’t feel that bad about it. 

Dana’s father wasn’t in the picture. 

She and her brothers were told, on Christmas Day seven years ago, in between opening presents and brunch, that they would never see him again. He had been taken away by the City Council for reeducation. (His family wasn’t told why.) But sometimes Dana wondered about him. Every month for the last seven years, someone called them with a phone number that begun with the three-digit area code for Desert Bluffs. No one listened to those voicemails, of course, because Desert Bluffs was the _worst._

Why would anyone want to listen to some loser who chose to live _there_? 

\+ 

Overhead, the sky was a black void with a partial smattering of stars. Every night Dana spent in the Dog Park, there were fewer stars. 

\+ 

Dana knew she was lucky to get into Miskatonic University — sure, it wasn’t as prestigious as other universities in Massachusetts, but but the application process was still pretty competitive. The hundred-page essay required for admission scared off a lot of applicants, but Dana wasn’t daunted by it at all. She wrote it all by hand on paper and a ball-point pen, thrilling slightly at her own daring. She ran out of things to say on the eightieth page and so filled up the rest with garbled prophecies of dubious veracity. Her old English and Ancient Runes teacher at Night Vale High School would have been proud of her.  
When she was done, she had to drive three towns over to mail it, and even then she received a menacing warning letter from the Sheriff’s Secret Police about her pen-usage. 

But it didn’t matter — she got in, and spent the next three years happily learning at Miskatonic. It was there she realized that her passions lay in public broadcasting. 

Arkham reminded her a lot of Night Vale, except for the obvious, of course. There was a river that ran through the campus and the ocean was only thirty minutes away. Sometimes it rained there, and there were trees, everywhere, and no one seemed to think that was a cause for alarm. 

When Dana slept, cozy in her little dorm room, she would sometimes hear faint scratching noises behind the walls. It was easy to ignore, usually. Only when the chanting and moaning got out hand did she throw a Physics book — or anything else, close at hand — against the wall. Things usually calmed down after that. 

Weirdness wasn’t exclusive to Night Vale after all. 

\+ 

But still, going back to Night Vale each summer after the school term ended was always a welcome relief. Dana was glad to see the trees disappear, and the rivers and lakes and farmlands dissolve into jigsaw pieces. When the plane crossed over the state’s borders, the business class briefly disappeared and the flight attendants had to go straight from first class to economy with their ginger ale and peanuts, their smiles fixed permanently on their faces. 

By the time the plane was ready to land on the runway of Randy Newman Memorial Airport, the business class returned, strangely altered and hysterically sobbing, their smartphones jammed into their ears. After the customary debriefings from several vague yet menacing secret government agencies, Dana was able to join her family, who were waiting for her at the baggage claim. 

They hugged. There were a few tears. 

Dana had to give a blood and stool sample to a waiting member of the Sheriff’s Secret Police, which was just standard procedure for everyone who returned to Night Vale from the outside. 

\+ 

Cecil was a good boss. 

He wasn’t a prima-donna like some public radio personalities could be, the ones who let fame get to their heads. (Two words: _Terry Gross_.) Instead, he was like a warm woolen sweater, knitted with just so much love and care that you felt obliged to wear it, even in the middle of a desert. It took him awhile to remember her name — he mistakenly called her Intern Stacey, Brad, Leland, Jerry, Chad...and once, weirdly, Vanessa - though there'd never been an Intern Vanessa at the radio station, so she had no idea who he could have been confusing her with - but eventually Dana’s name wormed into his brain and stuck there. 

Cecil always beamed at her when she brought in the coffee. And soon she learned that the best way to get into his good books was to text him all Carlos-relevant information at any time of the day or night. 

Dana’s intern duties were light. Station Management, as unknowable and threatening as they were, didn’t seem to believe in working their interns to the bone, without pay. Well, they _didn’t_ pay her, but it could be worse. 

Usually it was her job to make the coffee and do some light filing, and man the reception desk if needed. She was also the one who fed Khoshekh, who purred when she came in with his daily sack of mixed meats. 

True, since Khoshekh was trapped hovering in the men’s bathroom, there was some chance of awkwardness. But Dana usually fed Khoshekh when Cecil was broadcasting, and there really weren’t very many other staff members at the station, not since the annual budget-cuts cum mass cullings. 

Station Management didn’t use the restrooms, of course. 

She petted Khoshekh when she was done, he purred even louder. The mirrors rattled, and so do the doors of the bathroom stalls. Dana had always been more of a dog person before, but who could help but loving Khoshekh?

+

She was in line to get her mandated slice of pizza from Big Rico’s when suddenly Dana was slammed with a bad case of existential angst. Why, she wondered, was she here? Who was she, really? What about the people around her? What was this world but a rotting sore of pestilence and hate? 

Wouldn’t it be better if she walked in front of traffic right now? 

_**YES. END IT. END YOUR MEANINGLESS LIFE NOW, YOU WORTHLESS GRUBS, CRAWLING BLIND AND HELPLESS ON THE FILTHY CRUST OF THIS EARTH.** _

_**ALL HAIL —** _

But then she blinked and the feeling passed. Overhead, a cloud the color and shape of pink cotton candy floated on, as if supported by dreams. It was only the Glow Cloud, a respected citizen of Night Vale, on its way to a school board meeting. At least there were no dead animals this time — that kind of thing could put anyone off their lunch, even if the lunch was a delicious and City-Council mandated slice of pizza from Big Rico’s. 

Dana smiled when she saw that the line in front of her had all but disappeared. 

She picked her way through the bodies to the entrance of the restaurant. Today, she was really in the mood for a slice of Hawaiian Chicken pizza. 

After lunch, as she walked back to the radio station, Dana came upon Old Woman Josie and one of her angel friends. The angel was radiant, wearing both the shape of human, too beautiful to look at, and a ball of eyes and wings, too terrifying to comprehend with the naked eye. 

“Hi! Isn’t it a beautiful day?” Dana asked. 

Old Woman Josie, whose head was wrapped in a old plastic bag, gave her a brief, unreadable look before agreeing that the day was beautiful. The angel spoke as well, words like music, played slightly below (and simultaneously above) a frequency that Dana could hear. 

“Erika likes your shoes,” Old Woman Josie said and Dana beamed. That meant a lot, since angels tend to go barefoot. (Or, alternatively, they were always flying in a constant flurry of gigantic wings. Either way, it was a nice compliment.) 

But, Dana was a good citizen of Night Vale. She knew that angels did not exist. She walked past them without another word. 

\+ 

Time moved slowly in the Dog Park. 

In fact, Dana was not sure time moved at all in the Dog Park. It was just a guess. The grass looked slightly longer now than it did when she first came here. She was sitting on that grass when she looked up to see an old woman with no face, staring at her. Dana blinked. The old woman kept staring, despite not having a face, or eyes.

“I’m taking your room, I hope that’s okay. You don’t seem to need it anymore.” Her voice was a young woman’s voice. 

Dana asked, “You live in my house?” 

The Faceless Old Woman rolled her (invisible) eyes. “Yeah. Didn’t you get the memo?” 

“No,” Dana said. “I’ve been trapped in the Dog Park for months now. I think. It’s hard to tell.” 

“Oh, yeah. So you don’t need your room, right? I really like what your mom’s done with it since you left for college and disappeared into the Dog Park. I’m thinking about taking up yoga, and the mat’s already there.” 

“Look, can you help me get out of here? I think I might be starving,” Dana said. Her stomach gurgled, as if on cue. 

The Faceless Old Woman shrugged. “Sorry to hear that. Have you tried talking to Stan?” 

“Stan?” 

“Oh, yeah, uh, forget I said anything, I really gotta scoot. But if you see a man in a tan leather jacket, you should talk to him. His name isn’t Stan. Forget that part. Okay?” And even though she was still speaking, The Faceless Old Woman simply wasn’t there anymore. 

\+ 

There was a particular Hooded Figure that followed Dana around. She was a little shorter than the other Hooded Figures, and Dana called her Beatrice. In fact, Dana didn’t know if Beatrice was actually a she (probably not)— but calling her ‘it’ seemed rude. Also, Hooded Figures didn’t tend to speak, so Dana had no idea what Beatrice’s personal pronoun preferences would be. 

Anyway, Beatrice reminded her a girl she knew at Miskatonic. That Beatrice was an redheaded English major who had lived down the hall from Dana, sophomore year. She liked poetry and raising the dead, but only in the most ethical way possible. Dana had had a major crush on her, but had been too shy to say anything. 

Now, it was too late to do anything about it. 

Dana didn’t know what this Beatrice liked. Maybe she liked hovering near Dana? Because that was what she did, so that there was always faint static hum echoing through Dana’s brain. Dana thought that Beatrice was trying to talk to her, but humans and Hooded Figures just weren’t meant to communicate.

At least, not yet. 

Grass and flowers dissolved in mid-air when she threw them at Beatrice, and once, Dana pulled down Beatrice’s hood to reveal — nothing. Beatrice’s cloak collapsed into an empty heap and Dana staggered back, overwhelmed by — something. She felt like her brain was going to explode and the constant static hum reached eardrum shattering levels. 

The next moment, Beatrice was beside her again. 

Everything was as normal as it got in the Dog Park. 

\+ 

The Man in the Tan Leather Jacket gave Dana something to drink. The bottle of orange-milk was a little fly-specked, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He listened to Dana’s tale of woe with more sympathy than she expected. 

“Forbidden knowledge is a very tempting thing,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “If it wasn’t, then it probably wouldn’t be forbidden.” 

“Am I going to die here in here?” Dana asked, afraid of what the answer might be. 

“There are ways of leaving the Dog Park,” The Man in the Tan Leather Jacket says slowly. “You only have to accept the consequences of your decision.” 

\+ 

A box of Saltines were thrown over the fence of the Dog Park, and with it, a twenty-liter bottle of Fresca. 

“Thank you! Thank you!” Dana shouted, but she was sure the person on the other side of the wall couldn’t hear her. As she sat down to eat, Beatrice came over and hovered in front of her. 

Dana stared at her. Beatrice stared back — or Dana thought she did. 

Tentatively, Dana held out a hand with a Saltine cracker on it to Beatrice. After a long moment, Beatrice’s long sleeve covered Dana’s outstretched hand. It felt weird, touching a Hooded Figure; it was cold, like touching ice, but also very dry. It was somehow very exciting. The Saltine floated to Beatrice’s lips, despite her not having any fingers to hold them — and it disappeared into the front of her hood, despite her not having a mouth to eat it with. 

“Do you want more?” Dana asked. 

This time, it was Beatrice who held out her hand.

\+ 

Dana dreamed of angels watching over her.

Their eyes burned through her blankets and set fire to her bed. She screamed, but nothing came out of her mouth. The angels were remorseless, without mercy. One of them liked her shoes.

She woke up in a cold sweat. She had been sleeping on a park bench, which was wrought-iron and didn’t give an inch. Her body ached all over. When Dana pulled out her cellphone to call the station, the screen flashed for a moment and then went black. She couldn’t start it again. Dana threw it against the pavement where it broke into pieces. 

She screamed and the Dog Park screamed with her. 

There was nothing more she could do. 

\+ 

There was a hooded cloak on the ground in front of her, like a black pool of water on the white pavement. 

Dana looked around, terrified that the noises would start again. But there was nothing and nobody around. The desert could be cold at nights, and the Dog Park could be as cold as the void, any time of day. And Dana was freezing; she always was, nowadays. But that was not why she picked up the cloak, though it was warm to the touch and smelled faintly of vanilla. 

She pulled it over her head, and it engulfed her. It felt perfect, and right in all the ways that her skin no longer did. She could leave the Dog Park whenever she wished — Night Vale was hers. 

She heard a noise and looked around to see Beatrice. 

“Hi,” Beatrice said, holding out her hand. 

The Hooded Figure (who used to be Dana the Intern) took it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, Isis, for beta-reading. All mistakes are mine, etc, etc.


End file.
